


The Most Desirable Man in Venezia

by NeverwinterThistle



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Carnival, M/M, Undercover As Prostitute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 20:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19069981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: It is a fine night for a handsome man to earn a princely wage through the exercise of his charms and good nature. And better yet if those attractions were to catch the eye of a certain banker, whose activities may or may not warrant a very pointed response. The plan is a solid one.“So you have told me,” Leonardo says. “Several times, in fact.”





	The Most Desirable Man in Venezia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



There are lanterns in the streets. Bonfires, carefully tended; fireworks ignite above the canals and bridges, gilding the city like a woman wearing her festival best. Dorsoduro comes alive with the fall of night. In masks and embroidered silks, the revellers pass fire eaters, food sellers, games and gondoliers. Carnivale is a good time to be anonymous.

It is a fine night for a handsome man to earn a princely wage through the exercise of his charms and good nature. And better yet if those attractions were to catch the eye of a certain banker, whose activities may or may not warrant a very pointed response. The plan is a solid one.

“So you have told me,” Leonardo says. “Several times, in fact.”

“I wasn’t sure you were paying attention.”

“Ezio. You wound me. Now, if you will just raise your right arm a little- ah, yes, very good. Try not to move.”

“For how long, exactly?” Ezio grins at a group of passing women; they titter behind their masks. Which is only to be expected, but for the moment he has his sights set on a different target.

Andrea Foscari might not be a Templar. He might be a corrupt official, an otherwise unremarkable bribe-taker with a passion for fine clothes and expensive lovers; Antonio vouches for the former, and Teodora the latter, but neither is sure of the man’s allegiances. A Templar in power must die. A dishonest banker might do with a lesson, and a scar or two to make it linger.

Either outcome depends on Ezio making himself noticed, desired, and bought for the evening. It had not seemed like a difficult task several hours ago. His borrowed clothes are of extraordinary make, his mask lined with tiny pearls and golden gilding. He swaggers as best as he can, while keeping to his shadowed corner of the festivities. It is quite plain what he is selling; he has certainly smiled at enough aged noblemen, and merchants past their prime. There are reactions. He is _noticed_. If there is any justice in Venezia, he should have a line of eager customers pleading for his favours.

But people glance at him, smirk, and move along to sample his competitors. No one stops to ask. He is starting to wonder if he might be going about it wrong.

“Leonardo,” he says.

“Hmm? Arm _up_ , Ezio, you are ruining the line of the musculature.”

“Sorry. I was just contemplating how long I’ve been standing here. Foscari has passed us twice, and I saw him notice me. But both times he turned away. Something strange is going on here.”

“Not so strange, I think,” Leonardo says mildly. “Perhaps he is simply not interested.”

From any other man, Ezio would find the suggestion profoundly offensive. Even knowing that Leonardo is teasing him, he still bristles. A little.

“He should be,” he argues. He turns, but there is never any point to glaring at Leonardo when his nose is buried in a sketchbook. The effort goes unnoticed. “Teodora believes I fit his type. He prefers fiery young men-”

“Quite understandable.”

“-with dark eyes and charming manners-”

“Ah,” Leonardo says. He looks up from his sketchbook, laughing behind the painted leather of his mask. “I think perhaps I see the problem. Ezio, my friend, could it be that you lack charm?”

“I have charm,” Ezio argues. “Ask any woman on the streets of Venezia. My charm is famous in these parts; the heralds tell stories of it, every day.”

“And did you pay them to do so?”

“You are not being helpful,” Ezio says. “Whatever happened to, ‘ _Ezio, I’m not sure you have thought this plan through, perhaps it might be best if I came along to support you_ ’? Not that I don’t appreciate it,” he amends; he is very grateful for Leonardo’s presence, and has been all evening. This role he is currently playing is a new one to him. He is unaccustomed to the unexpected exertion of feigning interest in strangers that pass him by, of convincing with his eyes alone that he would much like to be taken back to their homes for an hour or two. He does not know how to make others choose him from the throng; usually, he does the choosing. And it seems he is not doing a very good job of it.

It is a bitter tonic to swallow, but easier with Leonardo at his back, perched on the low brick wall behind him. Certainly worth the hassle of holding various poses to keep his artist entertained.

“I cannot understand it,” Ezio says. At a gesture from Leonardo, he is finally permitted to drop his arm, wincing as the blood rushes down to his fingers. He massages his palm. “Perhaps Antonio was right, and we should have simply broken into Foscari’s home while he enjoyed the festivities. Or perhaps I should have taken Teodora up on her offer of practical lessons, instead of assuming I could handle it. My arrogance has jeopardised the mission.”

Gently, Leonardo stretches out a foot to nudge Ezio’s ankle. “Do not be so hard on yourself,” he says. “Perhaps you are simply having a slow night; fortune cannot always favour you, however charming you are.”

“Oh, so now you admit that I am charming.”

“I never said otherwise.”

“Yes, you said…something. Never mind, it doesn’t matter. We are wasting our time here, I think. I will have to try another night, when I have worked out what the problem is.” Groaning, Ezio pushes his mask up far enough to rub the bridge of his nose. He has, he thinks, a newfound respect for Teodora and her…art. It is clearly not as simple as she makes it look. He is missing some ingredient, some secret key to unlock the hearts of men as well as women. A smile and a tightly cut garment clearly aren’t doing the trick.

“Empty-handed,” he mutters, pulling the little velvet purse tied to his belt, upending it dismally. It contains exactly as many ducats as it did when he started out. Which is to say, none at all. “When I return to _La Rosa della Virtù_ , they will laugh themselves senseless. Ezio Auditore, the courtesan who no one would so much as kiss. Bah! I should stick to killing people. I should find our dishonest banker and see to him, Templar or not. What is one more murder at Carnivale, and anyway, he is hardly a saint.”

“Perhaps not,” Leonardo agrees, “but that does not make him your enemy. I know you, Ezio. Suspicion alone is never enough; you seek _knowledge_.” He stands, sketchbook in one hand, the other clasping Ezio’s shoulder. Squeezing it. Because of course, he is a gentle, peaceful man; he creates weapons and despairs of their use, he buys cages of captive birds and releases them from the rooftops. No stranger to death, but no herald to it either. It is plain that he would prefer the night to end bloodlessly.

Ezio has never liked disappointing him.

“Fine,” Ezio says. “For you, I will try another night. And if he is merely corrupt, and not a Templar, then I will seek some other form of justice against him. Are you happy now?”

“But of course,” Leonardo says. “After all, I am in your company. And what could possibly please me more?” He plucks the velvet purse from Ezio’s hand, holding it open to drop in a bright gold coin, and returning it with a smile for Ezio’s baffled expression. “I would not have it said that no man in Venezia found you charming,” he says. “Any more than I would have your pride bruised. This man, at least, was most impressed.”

“I do not want your charity-”

“I did not think you would.”

“Oh.” There is very little Ezio can say when Leonardo is at his most logical, and less still in the face of all his unconditional affection. The coin weighs heavy in its velvet. He owes a debt. In all honesty he owes Leonardo a great many debts, but this at least he has some hope of repaying.

“Well then,” he says. “I believe you have bought yourself a few minutes with the most desirable man in Venezia.”

“Money well-spent, I am sure,” Leonardo says. He is his usual bright self, he barely hesitates. The sketchbook is set gently down by his feet; his hands free, he touches Ezio’s shoulder, cups the edge of his jaw.

It is a strange thing to feel the scrape of a beard with the softness of a mouth. Something new, but not unpleasant; Leonardo tastes of wine, and the festival bonfires have seeped their acrid ashen smell into his skin. He is, as always, gentle. And it seems the simplest thing to take his chin in turn, and kiss him deeper. It comes as easy as his smiles.

“There,” Leonardo says when he steps back; he leaves Ezio colder, even this close to the bonfires. The lanterns lend his cheeks a flushed tone, or perhaps the blame lies with the wine. “Something to remember, if you choose to pursue this ill-advised venture of yours on another night. Be as you were with me.”

It is not the same thing, and Ezio opens his mouth to say so. Closes it, arguments unspoken. He’s not sure how to explain the difference.

“I will,” he begins, and stops to clear his throat. A strange mood has come over him. He is elated, inspired; he feels an urge to climb to the rooftops and run for a while, until the night wind cools his head and calms him. The streets are much too warm. “I will meet you at _La Rosa della Virtù_. We should talk to the others, I…I will meet you.”

“Ezio. Are you quite alright?”

He doesn’t know the answer to that. But it would be cruel indeed to dismiss Leonardo now, worried as he clearly is. He might blame himself for Ezio’s distraction; that would not be fair, though perhaps some of the blame really does rest with him.

He looks well in the lantern-light, with the gold of his hair made brighter, the keen intelligence of his eyes accentuated. Ezio isn’t sure how he hadn’t noticed until now. Perhaps that is the secret to his failure this evening; he should not have brought along such a handsome companion to keep him company. No wonder he was not approached, if the clients could not choose between them. Next time, he will invite someone less striking. Antonio, maybe.

“Do not worry about me, Leonardo,” he says. “I need a walk. It will not take long, and then we can meet to discuss other plans. Go on without me.”

“If you’re sure,” Leonardo says, and the worry in his face is too much to ignore. It would not be right to leave him in this way, thinking that he has done something wrong. For the second time that evening, Ezio leans in, to the smell of wine and bonfire ash, and presses his mouth briefly to Leonardo’s. He’s not sure what drives him to do it. But it is easier than the first.

“Never let it be said that the great courtesan, Ezio Auditore, was stingy with his favours,” he says.

Finally, Leonardo laughs at him. The expression sits very well on his face; it always does. “I would challenge any man who dared,” he says. “Very well, Ezio. Take your walk. I will see you later.”

Ezio watches until the crowds and bonfire smoke obscure him from natural view. And then he blinks, twists something sharp and cold within his gaze, and watches until Leonardo’s golden silhouette passes through the grey-edged crowds and around a corner.

Distracted as he is, he almost fails to notice the group of courtesans who pass. They giggle at him; they know him, he has seen all three at Teodora’s, and no doubt they have been asked to pass by and check on his abysmal progress. The smile he gives them is absent-minded, mechanical. They pass close, and one reaches out to drop a folded scrap of paper into his hands.

“From Teodora,” she whispers.

Ezio unfolds it.

_No one will pay for favours that so clearly belong to another. Next time you try to sell love, leave your lover at home._

“Hey-” he begins, but the courtesans are gone, swallowed by the revellers, hidden beyond the lantern-light, and he does not care to hunt them down.

The scrap of paper crushes easily in his fist; Ezio doesn’t know what to do with it, any more than he knows what to do with himself. It has been a strange night. Just as strange as the fact that he does not feel the sting of failure, although the mission most certainly was. He doesn’t know what he feels. The smoke and flickering lights have fogged his mind. Sinking back into the shadows, away from the crowds and colours and noise, Ezio tries to make sense of it all.

It is a long time before he moves again.

**Author's Note:**

> The author regrets that she did not have time to properly research the Venetian economy in the late 15th century, and therefore has no idea exactly how much money High Class Courtesan Ezio Auditore would charge for a kiss. Life is hard.


End file.
